


A Sacrifice for a Sacrifice

by Feeshies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Post-Blight, fic assumes the theory that quentin's wife was revka amell, my name is fish and i can only write about sad mages, this is rambly i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feeshies/pseuds/Feeshies
Summary: While the people of Ferelden got a hero, he lost a daughter.--As the people of Ferelden mourn the loss of the hero who sacrificed everything for them, a man decides to put his plan into action.





	A Sacrifice for a Sacrifice

When he saw the smoke rising in the distance, he knew it was too late.

He received her letter only a few days prior, but he did whatever it took to get to Ferelden as soon as he could.  He was foolish enough to think he could have stopped her.

The crowd was large as it was varied.  Noblemen, peasants, Grey Wardens, all the people of Ferelden gathered around to see the brave soul who sacrificed everything for them.  While the people of Ferelden got a hero, he lost a daughter.

With the density of the crowd, he couldn’t see the funeral pyre.  Part of him was grateful. He didn’t want this to be his last memory of her.

When he closed his eyes and blocked out the sounds of the crowd, he could still see her.  He could see her large blue eyes opening for the first time on the day she was born. She felt so small and fragile as he held her in his arms.  As a mage, most people learned to fear his hands and the power they possessed. But she wrapped a tiny hand around one of his fingers. She never learned to be afraid of him. 

He could remember the joy that swelled in his chest when he saw her clumsy hands use magic for the first time.  This was his chance to give her the life she deserved; the life he never got. The Circle couldn’t teach her the way he could.  The Circle couldn’t give her a loving home the way he could. He lived for the moments when he would practice magic with her, the moments when her eyes would light up when she would successfully cast the tiniest spell.  Admittedly he probably rushed into things by teaching her necromancy at such an early age, but nothing was too good for her.

He remembered hearing his wife, Revka, sobbing in the streets as the Templars dragged their daughter away.  He couldn’t leave his hiding place unless he wanted the Templars to notice him too. When the Templars were long-gone, he came out of hiding and joined Revka outside.  They clung to each other, crying over the light that just went out in their lives.

The Templars must have thought that they were saving her by throwing her in the Circle and filling her brilliant mind with such ridiculous ideas.  The moment he received her letter about the sacrifice she was going to make, he knew that was the Circle’s doing. The Chantry loves its martyrs.

He didn’t want a martyr.  He wanted his daughter. Even if it meant that the Blight never ended.  As long as it meant that he could see her one last time, it would all be worth it.

It was selfish, of course he realized this.  He was selfish when he escaped the Circle to be with the woman of his dreams.  He was selfish when he had a child despite being told how dangerous his kind was.  He was selfish when he was doing everything in his power to keep his wife alive even though he knew the pain she was in.

_ “Hold on a bit longer,” _ he would tell her, his hands cloaked in a glowing blue light as he desperately tried to heal her.   _ “Just until she comes home.” _

She never came home.  At that moment when Revka died in his arms, he thought that would be the end of the Maker’s cruelty towards him.

The trip back to his hideout was a blur.  He didn’t come to his senses until he was kneeling in front of Revka’s portrait.  He painted it himself and he poured love into every detail. The way her eyes would crinkle even when she was making the smallest smile, how elegant her hands looked folded in her lap, even the few strands of hair that would never cooperate no matter how much effort she put into styling it.  But the painting still couldn’t capture how lively she was. He could spend years capturing her likeness on canvas and he would never be able to recreate the soothing sound of her humming as she worked. Or how gentle her hands felt as she held them in his. Or how her eyes still glimmered even as she slipped away in his arms.

He placed a fresh bouquet of white lilies near the base of the portrait.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.  “I couldn’t get to her in time.”

He spent the rest of the evening combing through his notes.  Sketches mostly. Anatomical diagrams. He knew how to take the body apart with terrifying precision and he was just starting to learn how to piece it together again.  Even though he would sometimes practice on small animals, it was purely academic. An intellectual exercise. A fantasy.

Revka was gone.  His daughter was a pile of ashes in an urn.  Of course they didn’t keep the body. Would they have believed him if he told them that he could bring her back?  Would they send him back to the Circle? Revka’s body was gone too. He held onto it for as long as he could, but the other Amells grew impatient.  Two cousins held him down as he screamed while the others carried her body out of the estate. They didn’t believe her when he said he could revive her.  No, instead they burned her like she was a bag of tablescraps. They wouldn’t even humor the idea of healing her. They gave up so quickly.

But he hadn’t given up yet.  This was no longer academic. He traced his fingers across Revka’s painting.  This went against the Circle. This went against the Chantry. This went against the Maker himself.  He no longer cared. The Maker was cruel enough to take them away.

“This is only temporary, love.  I’m going to fix this. I promise.”

But to accomplish such a task, he would need resources.  As much as he despised the Circles, he admitted that they did serve as a useful place to find old books and tomes that he couldn’t collect on his own.

He glanced at the other side of the room where a pile of blank parchment sat on a desk.

Maybe it was time to contact an old friend.

**Author's Note:**

> The theory that Quentin is Warden Amell's father is my favorite thing ever and I will die on this hill.


End file.
